


another battle never won (so who cares who fired the gun?)

by fartherfaster



Series: Imperious Wrecks [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falcon!Cap, Gen, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 06:24:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7497534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fartherfaster/pseuds/fartherfaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she knocks, Sam has to remind himself he’s not the one in hiding.</p><p>-</p><p>Sam and Sharon through the mirror, darkly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	another battle never won (so who cares who fired the gun?)

**Author's Note:**

> If Steve and Bucky died immediately after their reunion, during the ambush of Bucky's apartment, the rest of the world might have moved on a little bit like this.
> 
> -
> 
> Notes at the end contain story spoilers.

Another battle never won  
and each side is a loser  
so who cares who fired the gun?

St Jude, the patron saint of the lost causes  
we were lost before we started

_ Florence Welch, St Jude _

 

* * *

 

When she knocks, Sam has to remind himself he’s not the one in hiding.

Her hands are tucked into the pockets of her coat, her chin pulled down into the deep pile of her scarf. Sharon’s looking at the frozen leaves on Sam’s porch plants like she can count the frost crystals.

“Hey,” he says. 

“Hi,” she says, one corner of her mouth pulled up in a smile.

“This isn’t business, is it?” he asks. Sam’s used to jobs that follow him home, but taking up the shield has had ramifications he couldn’t foresee, and he prizes his solitude in new ways now.

Sharon shakes her head, and section of her ponytail works free from under her scarf, catching the breeze. She tucks it behind her ear with a quick, thoughtless gesture.

“Okay,” says Sam, stepping back and swinging the door open. “Okay.”

Sharon sheds her coat and scarf into Sam’s waiting hands and toes her boots off, leaving them to lean against the tall baseboard. As she follows him into the kitchen, he throws a look over his shoulder. “What’s going on?” He pulls a barstool out for her, scraping quietly over the tile, and then continues around to the other side.

Sharon bounces on her toes to perch on the seat. She shakes her head, but before she can say anything, Sam leans in on his elbows opposite her and cuts her off. “And don’t say you was just passin’ through, either.”

“I wasn’t,” she challenges. Sam only hums, turning away from her to pull a set of mugs down from a cupboard overhead. The steady hiss and drip of the coffeemaker prompts a thick, homey smell that quickly percolates. While Sam’s back is still turned to her, Sharon speaks up. “Steve’s not really dead, is he.” There’s no inflection in her voice; she’s not asking.

“Well, you know, I’m doing just fine, Sharon. Nice of you to ask.” Sam puts two steaming mugs down on the ceramic bar, his face stoney.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Sharon says, sweeping her hair over her shoulder. She looks at him with careful intent, noticing the way his brows are drawn together, the tension riding in his shoulders. “Really, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

Sam breaks her gaze to stir honey into his coffee. “Somebody’s gotta do it.” He stifles a sigh, his expression shifting with a quick grimace. “And the real, the  _ first _ Captain America was a black man, too. Elijah Bradley was a Tuskegee Airman. I’m not the precedent; just settin’ things right.”

Sharon wraps her hands around the mug, pulling the warmth into her palms. 

When Sam looks up at her, Sharon feels very small under the weight of his gaze. “That ain’t what you wanted to know, either.” 

“Sam,” she sighs, “I just…” Sharon looks down at the bar top, rubbing one knuckle between her eyebrows. “Where is everyone? What’s going on?” She’s leaning forward on her elbows, her palms facing upward, empty. “The UN releases the Sokovia Protocols on Thursday and we’re supposed to believe that spectacle in the harbour two days ago killed both Rogers and Barnes?” The unasked hangs in the air between them: Sam picked up the shield on Wednesday, and she’s not the only one made suspicious by the order of events.

“I’m not asking on behalf of some monolith,” Sharon pleads. “Where are my  _ friends _ ? Are you in danger, too?”

Sam puts his head in his hands. “The spectacle wasn’t us,” he admits. “Wasn’t none of us.”

Sharon inhales quietly. “Then who?”

Sam levels a hard look at her. Sharon feels hot fury ride up the back of her neck. “No!” she barks. “It didn’t come from us.”

“Would you know?” he asks, voice a growl. “Ask yourself really, would you know now?”

Sharon swallows her words. There is a sick, clenched feeling in her gut. “The  _ New York Times _ ran a headline this morning, called it the next American Civil War. I didn’t then, but now I believe it.”

“Don’t,” says Sam. His coffee has gone cold, untouched. “Don’t call it that.”

“Why not?”

“This isn’t the kind of fight anybody wins.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was the prologue/introduction for the prompt "Trope #13: secret inner-thigh touches in public spaces," but I lost my gusto to go past it. I really like closing it off so abruptly, but I've met 0% of the prompt content demand... Drop a comment if you'd like to see it finished properly, and I might get enough inspiration to take it somewhere.


End file.
